


A Landmark of happy returns

by weweretold



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Sherlock is worried, Sherlock surprises John, anyway let's hope it goes better than in the series, but hopeful, there's lots of hypothesizing about John's moustache
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-18
Updated: 2015-11-18
Packaged: 2018-05-02 06:48:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5238467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weweretold/pseuds/weweretold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock plans to surprise and seduce John when he comes back from the dead in The Empty Hearse. He really, really hopes John will want to see him – and it all ends up going a little bit differently than in the series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Landmark of happy returns

**Author's Note:**

> On tumblr, [57circlesofhell observed](http://57circlesofhell.tumblr.com/post/133273047151/you-ever-think-about-the-fact-that-sherlock-was) that Sherlock had genuinely planned to surprise and seduce John. I got to thinking about it, and this little fic was the results. It's unbeta'd and unbritpicked, so let me know if you see any opportunity for improvement!

“And what about John Watson?” Sherlock asked his brother, while he straightened the collar of his snow white shirt. He had been back in England only hours, but he had managed to postpone the topic of John Watson until now.

Anthea glanced at Mycroft as if they had discussed this point beforehand. Sherlock couldn’t help but hypothesise: see, they had talked about him and John. Well, it was to be expected – Mycroft could be quite sharp in his observations sometimes, as much as Sherlock hated to admit it. He wouldn’t be surprised if Mycroft had noticed Sherlock’s eagerness to contact John, or even foreseen it. Maybe he had even warned John that Sherlock was returning.

“John?” Mycroft asked, in a clear attempt to buy himself some time.

Sherlock hummed in agreement. “Have you seen him?” He was genuinely curious. He wouldn’t have put it past Mycroft to have actually kept in touch with John – not out of sentiment, obviously, but to keep him safe, or simply out of habit. Or indeed because even a man like Mycroft could get lonely sometimes, and Sherlock was sure that Anthea’s company wouldn’t always be enough. She was bright, but by far not as bright as John.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Oh, yes,” he said mockingly, “we meet up every Friday for fish and chips.”

Right. Mycroft also hadn’t had the nerve to face John, then, after Sherlock had disappeared. Sherlock grabbed the folder Anthea held out to him.

“I’ve kept a weather eye on him, of course,” Mycroft continued. “You haven’t been in touch at all, to prepare him?”

“No,” Sherlock answered quickly. Obviously not. He had wanted to keep John safe. He wouldn’t have risked throwing away everything he had fought for, these past two years.

A couple of pictures greeted Sherlock when he opened the file. Dear God. A ghastly moustache. “Well, we’ll have to get rid of that,” he said mostly to himself. In his mind’s eye, he had already played out the future so many times: this time around, he would not miss the chance to charm John, he would make sure that neither of them would leave, he would finally make a move and never let go.

In that future, John didn’t have a ridiculous sand-coloured bristle above his mouth, though.

“We?” Mycroft asked. Sure, brother, pretend to play innocent.

“He looks ancient,” Sherlock said. “I can’t be seen to be wandering around with an old man.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mycroft smiled his fake endearing smile that he also displayed to mummy when she said something ludicrous.

Sherlock looked up at Mycroft. “What?”

“I commend you for keeping the dream alive.”

Sherlock nodded absent-mindedly. Finally, after two years, he was going to see John again. It felt like a momentous occasion and he wasn’t quite sure how to face it.

A number of scenarios were already running through his head. Creep up behind him and put his hands over John’s eyes. Maybe he could make a nice dinner, have it ready at Baker Street when John would come home. Or he could place himself in John’s bed tonight. Risky, but possibly worth it.

Quite unexpectedly, Sherlock felt the urge to do something whimsical, something that would make John laugh. Equally unexpectedly, he felt nervous.

“I think I’ll surprise John,” he said, and then adding, “he’ll be delighted,” mostly to assure himself. God, he really, really hoped John would indeed be delighted.

“You think so?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock nodded. “I’ll pop into Baker Street. Who knows, jump out of a cake.” Before he had left, it had been clear that John had feelings for him – but now, two years later? Surely he still would. John couldn’t have moved on. He wouldn’t have.

“He won’t be home tonight, brother dear.”

Hm, that would rule out a nude surprise in the Baker Street living room. Well, of course Sherlock could position himself there and wait all evening for John to come home, but he was getting impatient. “Where’s he going to be tonight?”

“How would I know?” Mycroft asked.

“You always know.” A little flattery never hurt anyone, after all.

“He has a dinner reservation in the Marylebone Road. Nice little spot. They have a few bottles of the 2000 Saint-Emilion. Though I prefer the 2001.”

Sherlock chose to ignore Mycroft’s pretentious comment, by virtue of a number of new ideas that entered his mind. The Landmark, then. A fancy restaurant. A good place for a dazzling revelation. “I think maybe I’ll just drop by.” They could jump right into a romantic date. A first date. Finally.

“Just be aware that he isn’t expecting you.”

Sherlock smiled. “All the more occasion to surprise him.”

Only a few hours later, shaved and bathed and well-prepared, Sherlock found himself entering The Landmark. He was quite sure – well, _almost_ sure – that John would welcome him back with open arms. Not a day had gone by in the past two years that Sherlock hadn’t thought of John. John had obviously had feelings for him, that had been clear from day one, and so it was quite inevitable that John would still be waiting for him.

And this time around, Sherlock wouldn’t waste any time. He would do what he should have done when they had first met. He wouldn’t be too nervous and closeted and anxious to respond properly to John’s flirtations. He wouldn’t dismiss John’s questions about his love life. He would charm the pants off of him – quite literally, even.

The sight of John at his dinner table almost knocked the breath out of Sherlock, if it hadn’t been for the grisly grub of coarse hair decorating his face. (God, the man had really let himself go, hadn’t he.) But apart from the moustache, it was still John in all his glory, he was still the magnificent bundle of brilliance and muscle that Sherlock had missed so dreadfully.

A tad greyer, perhaps, and the grief hadn’t been kind to the lines around his eyes. But yes, his eyes were still bright blue, he still had the soft smile, the compact frame, now wrapped in a nice suit (moderately priced, no special occasion, just something he had in his closet), all the same as two years ago. Two years that Sherlock had spent dreaming about this moment.

Now, for the surprise. From all the scenarios Sherlock had thought of, he hadn’t been able to pick one. He had spent the past few hours mostly pacing around his brother’s house, more anxious than he’d been willing to admit to himself.

When a young female waiter passed him, he decided on a whim to surprise John with a quickly assembled French waiter’s disguise. Making his way over to John’s table, he collected the necessary elements, and even found a way to draw a moustache on his face – John would surely appreciate the joke.

When Sherlock arrived at the table, he put on his best French accent and a silly voice. “Can I help you with anything, sir?” The evenings they had spent watching ‘Allo, ‘allo! had certainly paid off, and he was sure John would recognise him.

But no. John didn’t look around. He seemed preoccupied with something. “Hi, yeah. I’m looking for a bottle of wine, a good one.”

Oh, John’s voice. Sherlock had missed it. He had dialed John’s number sometimes, to hear his voicemail, or even to wait until John picked up – though he had never spoken back.

Sherlock leaned closer, to pick up John’s smell. It was just as it used to be. Same toothpaste, same shampoo, same soap. John was a man of habit and Sherlock loved him for it.

There, yes: loved. _He loved John._ Sherlock hadn’t wanted to let himself admit it, but he was so close now, finally. He pushed away the impulse to lower his head only a few inches more to press a soft kiss on John’s neck. No, he would play along and let John discover him.

“Well,” he said, “these are all excellent vintages.”

“Er, it’s not really my area,” John said. Sherlock’s heart jumped at the memory of himself saying exactly that on their first date. No, he shouldn’t say date. Their first dinner together. They would finally have their first date tonight. “What do you suggest?” John asked.

“Well, you cannot possibly go wrong, but if you’d like my personal recommendation, this last one on the list is a favourite of mine.” He pointed to the 2000 Saint-Emilion that his brother had recommended. “It is, you might in fact say–” Sherlock straightened up for the reveal, “–like a face from the past.” With a flourish, he removed his glasses. Come on, John. Look up.

But John stayed focused on the menu. “Great. I’ll have that one, please,” he said, taking a large sip from his glass.

Well. Alright then. Another try perhaps? “It is familiar, but with the quality of–” this one John surely couldn’t miss, “–surprise!”

“Well, surprise me,” John said dismissively.

Sherlock was getting a bit frustrated now. “Certainly endeavouring to, sir,” he mumbled, stalking away.

He wasn’t quite sure what to do exactly. To buy himself time, he walked to the bar area to fetch the wine. That would be nice, they could have a drink, exchange stories from the past two years, which had no doubt been equally hellish for them both, albeit in different ways. Sure, Sherlock was the one who had been chased and beaten and tortured, but he was aware that John had had to live with the idea of his best friend being dead for two years.

A sudden realisation struck him. John wasn’t here alone. The chair opposite him had been pulled back, the napkin unfolded, a glass filled and half-emptied.

Mycroft hadn’t been kidding when he said that John wasn’t expecting him. Oh, God. Sherlock really, really hoped it wasn’t a date he was intruding on.

Well, what if it was? Sherlock was quite sure that John had been mourning for him as if for a dead spouse. And wouldn’t one’s deepest desire then be to see that person again? Sherlock decided not to be discouraged by the possibility of John dating someone else. After all, how serious could it be?

Sherlock quickly calculated: John had surely spent a few months grieving before he would have wanted to start dating, and knowing him, it would have taken him quite a few tries to find the right person. The suit he was wearing: not the sort of thing John would wear to a first date. The restaurant: not a place for a first date, unless John had suddenly started to make significantly more money than he used to, which was highly unlikely, considering the quality of the suit. If it was a date, it would be with someone he’d been together with for a while.

Unlikely, then.

When Sherlock had just gathered up the courage to walk up to John again, he saw DI Lestrade approach the table from another angle, pulling back the chair opposite John to sit down. What was his name again? George? Gerard. No. Gregor? Greg! Yes, Greg. Hadn’t changed a bit. Sherlock felt a sudden surge of gratitude for Greg’s tolerance of him, all those years. Strange, how two years away could make one look at people quite differently.

Not a date, then, surely. Or was it? Sherlock’s mind raced. He couldn’t rule out the possibility. Two years could be long enough for John to (finally) accept the fact that he was attracted to men, and to find a partner. Was that what the moustache was about? Was it the latest fad in the gay community to have a bristly length of hair along the upper lip? Sherlock fell back a bit, observing the situation before he would make a move.

“Sorry that took so long, mate,” Greg said, scooting his chair a bit closer to the table. He looked sharply at John, narrowing his eyes. “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. Me? Fine. I am fine.” John didn’t sound fine.

“So he hasn’t come up to you then?”

“What?” John looked confused. “Who?”

Greg inhaled sharply. “Oh… No one. Nothing. I shouldn’t have said.” He shook his head slightly. “Anyway, I’m glad we’re getting the chance to celebrate my promotion to Chief Inspector. Wouldn’t have happened if it wasn’t for you, mate.”

“You’re welcome.” John smiled. “I’d toast you, but I’m afraid I only just ordered a new bottle, should be here any minute.” He looked around.

Sherlock inhaled deeply. It would have to be now.

It would have to be now.

He hoped, _hoped_ , that this wasn’t a date, that John wouldn’t be angry, that he wouldn’t look him in the face and shout at him, that he wouldn’t punch him in the nose. Sherlock pushed away all of those thoughts, all of those nightmare scenarios.

As in a dream, he walked up to the table, gripping the wine bottle with both hands to avoid dropping it. His hands were sweating.

In a fit of nerves, he assumed the French waiter persona again. “Sir, I think you will find this vintage exceptionally to your liking,” Greg was looking up at him now, smiling – had he been aware of the plan? – but John was still staring at the table, “it has all the qualities of the old, with some of the colour of the new,” oh God, why was he babbling, “like a gaze from a crowd of strangers,” please, John, look up, “suddenly one is aware of staring into the face of an old friend.”

Sherlock took off his glasses with a flourish.

John looked up. As his eyes locked onto Sherlock’s, his face fell.

Sherlock felt like he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t work out John’s expression. He didn’t look happy. Fear? Anger? Surprise? Sorrow? All of those?

The silence was unbearable.

“Interesting thing, a tuxedo,” Sherlock broke the silence. “Lends distinction to friends, and anonymity to waiters.” Please, John. Please.

John looked at Greg, who shrugged. So he had been in on the plan, then. John’s head did a small shake, or maybe more a tremor, and he got up from his chair inelegantly, rattling the cutlery on the table. He inhaled and looked at Sherlock, then away, then at Sherlock again, as if he wanted to calibrate his vision with other objects in the room that decidedly were real.

“Well,” Sherlock continued, “short version… Not dead.” John’s gaze made him feel like he should explain himself.

John was still silent.

Oh, bollocks. Maybe everything was ruined now. Sherlock felt like he should try to apologise. “Bit mean, springing it on you like that, I know. Could have given you a heart attack, probably still will. But in my defence, it was very funny.” He tried to force his face into a smile.

Now, finally, John’s eyes softened. The anger disappeared, the lines on his face instead drawing into sadness, relief, a hint of happiness. One of the corners of his mouth drew up an infinitely small amount, the tiniest fraction of that lopsided smile that had always made Sherlock weak in the knees.

John cleared his throat. “Greg,” he asked, “you were in on this, weren’t you?”

“Sorry, mate,” Greg’s voice sounded from the other side of the table. “Should have warned you, maybe.” Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to take his eyes away from John’s face.

“That’s alright,” John said. “You already expected to go home early, then? I…” He hesitated. “I think I’ve got some catching up to do.”

Now, Sherlock’s face plied itself into a genuine smile, a smile he couldn’t suppress, and John’s face was doing the same, and Sherlock felt like he could breathe again, coming back from his paralysis of fear.

Sherlock was suddenly conscious of John’s body so close to his, and all the years of longing folded itself into this one moment where he couldn’t stop himself, and before his mind caught up with him, he had taken a step towards John, and his hand had reached out and taken John’s hand.

Oh God. They were actually touching. John’s skin was softer than Sherlock had imagined.

John stared at their joined hands, as if he was still figuring out whether Sherlock was real.

And then Sherlock couldn’t bear it anymore, and he made that last step towards John, and put his free hand on John’s cheek, lifting his head up to look in his eyes.

“Is this okay?” he mumbled.

John stammered “Oh, God, yes,” before closing the distance between them.

The moustache would have to go, though.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thanks for reading, and I live for your kudos and comments!


End file.
